(DASHA)
Whatever.
I hoped that the bite mark on his arm hurt like hell. "Join us," Massimo said, gesturing to the empty chair.
"Or don't," I said. "Seriously, please don't."
"I hadn't realized everyone was eating," he said in a low, menacing voice. "I think I will eat, too."
Fuck me.
He slowly lowered himself into the plush seat at the far end of the table, positioning himself directly across from me with a quiet grace.
With deliberate movements, he picked up the bottle of rich, red wine and poured himself a generous glass, the liquid glinting in the soft light. He then leaned forward slightly, extending the bottle toward my nearly empty glass, filling it to the brim with the same careful attention.
As the wine swirled into my glass, he met my gaze with a faint smile and asked in a warm, conversational tone, "Are you enjoying the food so far? I hope it meets your expectations."
His voice carried a note of genuine interest, as if my satisfaction truly mattered to him.
